The curse of gold

“De Marke and Elsie were married,” continued the old man. “Elsie was our only one, and all that we possessed was hers, even then, had she desired it. We only stipulated with her husband, that, during a portion of the year, they should make their home with us, here in the old family mansion, which Elsie would some day have entirely to herself.

“De Marke would have consented to anything, in those days; but this proposition pleased him greatly. Alterations were made in the east wing. The library was added, and De Marke brought the choicest of his books from town, that his young wife should blend thoughts of himself even with her studies. It was settled that one half of the year should be spent with us, where Elsie should go on with her studies, and that they should occupy her husband’s town-house during the other six months.

“It was a sad day for us when the darling gave her young life so completely to another. Yet, socially speaking, the match was a good one. Elsie was never entirely our own, after that; the intense affection which she gave to her husband was too absorbing for the milder and calmer love that had grown in her heart for us.

“For a year they were very happy. In my whole life, I have never witnessed bliss so absorbing and complete. The joy of a common life-time was concentrated into those twelve brief months. The mother and I forgot our partial isolation, in witnessing a happiness so complete for our child. You have seen the library, and perhaps wondered at the disuse into which it had fallen when you first came to us. That room De Marke fitted up for his bride. In it they studied together, for Elsie was no common girl, and all that her husband knew she was resolved to learn.

“It was in the latter part of this first year that the two portraits were taken. That of Elsie, in the flush of her joy and beauty, may give you some idea of what she was then. I believe that of De Marke was equally faithful. You have seen them. You have sat in the room which was for a time their Eden. De Marke was a young man, ardent, rash, and inflated, by a premature acquaintance with the world, with a false idea of woman. He had no real faith in the sex. Of French descent, he had naturally spent much of his time in Paris, that hot-bed, in which so much that is pure and great in our young men is almost certain to perish.

“It was more than a year before Elsie left our house. Her child was born here, and directly after that De Marke was absent two or three months on a pleasure excursion.

“Elsie, who had been studying the languages with him, being still imperfect in the French, consented to receive a person of that nation into our house, during her husband’s absence, as a companion and teacher. I am not sure that De Marke ever knew this person before; but it was through his means that she came to the house.

“She was quiet enough, this strange Frenchwoman, and devoted herself to Elsie and the child with great assiduity. We saw little of her, for she took her meals in Elsie’s apartments, but it was impossible to doubt that she soon gained a remarkable ascendency over her young mind. But as our child was won from the loneliness, which fell upon her after De Marke’s absence, by this companionship, we were grateful to the woman.

“At last, De Marke returned. He was evidently very glad to see his wife and child, but the reaction of an ill-regulated nature was upon him, and Elsie took this to heart as an estrangement. Her health had not returned entirely, after the birth of her boy, and she was the more susceptible on this account. For the first time in her life, our child became irritable and sometimes unjust. De Marke resented this; and at last came struggles, reproaches, and those sullen hours that eat into the happiness like a rust.

“Elsie was only struggling for her husband’s love, and he could not comprehend that the deepest love can be tortured into bitter words.

“In this crisis, common to ardent natures like theirs, that Frenchwoman became the confidante of both husband and wife.

“In this state, De Marke took his wife from her old home, and installed her in a splendid establishment, which he had prepared for her reception in the city. She left us—that poor child—drowned in tears—and in tears she came to us again.

“We never knew what passed in Elsie’s home after this. Once or twice we visited her always to return, with heavy hearts. Amid all the splendor with which De Marke surrounded her, she seemed pining to death. But Elsie had grown proud and reserved even with her old parents, and when we asked the cause of her evident anxiety, she would strive to cheer us with smiles, and that was heart-breaking.

“The Frenchwoman had changed more than Elsie. From a quiet, humble dependant, she had sprung up into an assuming, fine lady, and seemed far more decidedly mistress of the house than our daughter. Elsie did not seem aware of this, for her poor, wistful eyes were always fixed on one point. She cared for no authority save that which sprung from her husband’s love. I doubt if she was conscious how great the alteration was which we detected in the deportment of this Frenchwoman.

“At last, a change stole over Elsie; a fever of the heart came on; she dashed aside her tears, and plunged madly into the fashionable world. She was young, fresh, and wonderfully beautiful. Her husband’s wealth gave power to these attractions. She became the reigning belle of watering-places, the queen of every assembly-room. We read her praises in the fashionable journals. Through all society her loveliness shone light like a star.

“And we two lonely old people heard all this with aching hearts; for well we knew this eclat was but another expression of our daughter’s misery. Then followed other paragraphs in the journals that had been so busy with the praise of our child. Dark hints, mysterious insinuations, and at last open scandal, that made the mother’s cheek turn white, and the blood boil in my veins. We were quiet people; but it was impossible to endure this. To-morrow, I said, to-morrow I will go after my child; they have driven her to desperation; she shall come home; and that man shall render us a strict account of his conduct regarding her.

“The mother only answered me with her tears and gentle entreaties that I would bring Elsie home.

“Everything was ready. In the morning, I was to set forth; but that night, that very night, our child, our poor, poor Elsie came home, in the dark, and all alone.

“Her husband had turned her out-of-doors.

“We were sitting together, the mother and I, waiting for the morning; for sleep was impossible, and we felt less unhappy in each other’s presence, though we scarcely exchanged a word in the profound sadness that had fallen upon us. Never, in my whole life, do I remember a night of such dreary length. Everything was still. It was winter, and the snow was falling out-of-doors in great flakes, with that perpetual whiteness which makes a night-storm so ghastly. The hickory logs had burned through, and fallen apart into a bed of dying embers; and lay smouldering away, giving out smoke, but no flame.

“The old ebony clock ticked loud and sharp, filling the silence with its irritating count of time. Once in a while, we looked out through the frosted windows, searching for a flush of daylight upon the snow; but always to see that eternal sheet of whiteness becoming broader and deeper all around us. This dismal spectacle drove us back into the room, and still another hour we sat cowering together, over the hearthstone that had never seemed cold till then.

“We had drawn closer and closer together, till the fire went wholly out, sharing the misery of that hour in deathly silence. The mother’s hand was growing cold in mine, but I had no strength to urge her to bed or wish to rekindle the fire. Gloomy as everything was, the misery in our hearts was darker still.

“All at once, I felt the mother’s hand quiver in mine. Her eyes were turned to the window, and directly my gaze followed hers.

“A human face was pressed to the window, a face, pale as the snow that lay in wreathing flakes adown those tresses of black hair, and two black eyes looked in upon us.

“We arose, holding the breath from our lips, and walked hand-in-hand toward the door, treading softly, as if we felt ourselves in the presence of a ghost.

“I opened the door and strove to call our poor child by name; but the tongue clove to my mouth, and all the sound I could make went off through the falling snow like a sob of wind.

“The mother’s heart broke its ice first, and in a tender wail she called out, ‘Elsie, Elsie! my child, my child!’